


Dirty Work

by Falcine



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: F/M, I will write Bucky in Bucharest for the rest of my life, Melancholy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-08-12 05:19:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7922050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Falcine/pseuds/Falcine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's no real reason why Natasha needs him for this latest job. But he doesn't complain when she slips her arm through his and they make their way to the shitty, Hydra-Infested diner. </p><p>Bucky and Nat understand each other, in ways that other people never could.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Work

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think there's one line of dialogue in this that doesn't have some sort of double meaning...

The only reason he catches a glimpse of the familiar red hair is because she wants him to see. Still, that isn’t to say Natasha Romanoff’s face is a perfect mask of surprise when he put a hand on her arm. 

She whirls around, the surprise melting to the barest hint of a smile. “Darling!” she cries, and throws her arms around his neck. The first thing she does is pull him into a closed mouth kiss, and, well, hell he ain’t complaining. Still, he wonders what she’s here for. 

They hug tighter when she pulls back. Closer, she whispers, “Nice to see you here, Barnes.” Her voice is lower, more tired, more like herself when there’s no one else to hear. 

“Bucky,” he says.

“Is that what it is now?” she asks. 

He shrugs. The first time one of her unknown, untraceable messages popped up on one of his burner phones, he’d almost packed up and left. It’d been Belgrade then and he’d left eventually a while afterwards because Hydra didn’t know when to up and quit, but Natasha’d kept texting him. And now here they were. 

It’s too easy, the way she links her arm with his. Bucky flexes the fingers of his left hand and she doesn’t say a word, just wraps herself closer to him like they were some honeymooning couple out for a stroll. 

Bucky quirks his mouth in half a grin—the Black Widow and Winter Soldier on a honeymoon. It sounded like the setup for a joke. 

“Where’re we going?” he asks, almost content to let her lead the way (at least, for now—there is something terrible in letting someone lead the way that he’s not letting himself think of just yet, but this is Natasha. If she wanted to, she’d drag him kicking and screaming back to America).

Natasha’s lips quirk into a dry smile that he already knows is her trademark. Bucky hasn’t seen her much more than a handful of glimpses since after the Potomac and everything before is still too bright too soon, but the smile fits easy enough on her face that he can tell. Not many expressions fit easy on an ex-Soviet assassin’s face.

When Bucky grins, it’s still too wrong in the mirror, too practiced and faked. 

“Don’t recognize these streets?” she asks. 

Bucky snorts. “I can walk ‘em in my sleep, doll.” 

The smile gains the edge of something genuine. “Then you know where we’re going.” 

She doesn’t give him any more answers. The frustration is almost grounding. Bucky spots a couple of faded storefronts he knows and maps the city out in his head. 

Then he snorts. Of course they’re headed to the one shady diner he’s had an eye on for weeks now. Hydra owned, maybe. More liked Hydra-frequented, or whatever the fuck else you might want to call it. Infested.

“Got a job to do?” he asks, if only to keep up the casual facade. 

“Something like that.”

“Couldn’t have gone in alone?” 

Natasha adjusts her coat. She snakes her hand into his back jean pocket. “Don’t like my company?” 

Bucky only stops them for half a second to stare at her. 

The nice thing about Natasha is that she doesn’t even fucking blink when Bucky starts steering them down the street instead. It’s a subtle shift, for sure, but instead of her gently tugging on his jacket it becomes him tucking her closer to his side. She doesn’t say a word, just goes along with it, and when he goes down all the right streets she only gives his ass an errant pat. 

“You know,” she says, “this could’ve been a job for the whole gang.” 

Tension grips his jaw when he asks, “Why wasn’t it?”

He already knows he’s squeezing her arm too tightly. But Natasha probably doesn’t give a fuck. She rolls her eyes. “I volunteered and made it a solo mission.” 

“Because of me?” 

“Because I needed some air.” 

They’re here. 

Natasha slips her hand out of his pocket and her fingers are light when she eases herself away from his side. He’d hardly noticed that they’d been plastered together for the entire goddamn walk, but the air feels colder without her warmth. She pushes past him, breezy as one could be stepping into one of the seedier places in Bucharest. 

And then there’s his suspected Hydra goon, sitting in the back and gorging on cheap American-style scrambled eggs. Pleasant.

Bucky stands at the door, one hand on the dirty glass, trying not to break it. But then Nat rolls her eyes again and turns. “You coming hotshot?” 

He slips on the widest, stupidest grin he can muster up, just for her. “You betcha, baby.” Brooklyn comes sliding out of his mouth too easy, but maybe he doesn’t mind as much when it’s supposed to be a mask. 

Nat tosses her hair and laughs. They sit down in a booth, just a couple down from Hydra goon. Bucky tugs Natasha’s hand in his and plays with her fingers, like they’re some disgusting honeymoon couple. She spends half the time making bedroom eyes at him and the other half making bedroom eyes at Hydra goon. 

This much he knows. All for the job. This much is familiar, no matter which part of his life you’re talkin’ about. 

And, shit, there’s just something sad about that isn’t there? 

“What’cha up for this time, doll?” he asks Nat, just to stop his thoughts from veering too far off path again.

Natasha tilts her head. “The usual.” 

They order some cheap fries and smoothies off the menu. Romania’s got style, really, even if it’s trying too hard to be American here. Bucky thinks maybe that’s why Hydra goon chose this place— plenty of former Soviet buildings all around but it’s the Americans that know seedy and dirty the best. 

“So how’s the others?” he asks around a mouthful of fries.

Nat picks at her side before snatching up the longest one. She drops it into her mouth all slow and invitingly, and when she winks, Bucky isn’t quite sure if it’s directed at him or the Hydra goon who’s most definitely staring this way now. “The others or just the one?” she asks. 

Bucky scowls. Doesn’t deign her with an answer to that. The backpack still slung over his shoulders is heavy with notebooks those notebooks are heavy with sketches. Sketches and memories and everything he’s too goddamn tired to think about for too long. “You know what I mean.”

“He’s good,” Nat says, smile widening. “Want me to pass a message along?” 

His scowl deepens.

The unspoken agreement from that very first text exchange: don’t tell anyone (don’t tell Steve). 

“That’s okay, I’ll tell them you’re better off without all of them.” It’s just a joke, because Nat is never sincere, so it’s okay. But he keeps the scowl and clenches his gloved fist on the counter. The fries sit between them, soggy and drenched in too much oil. 

Nat reaches out and eats a handful. 

“Anyways,” she says, probably when she’s noticed they’ve lapsed into silence, “I’ll be right back sweetie. Ladies’ room.” She stands from the booth in a fluid, elegant moment, and for a second he’s taken back to  _ before.  _ Nat stands like that when she’s got somebody to kill.

He fights the urge to turn and stare. It might give them away. Maybe not. Maybe he just doesn’t really want to. 

It’s not hard to imagine it--Natasha sashaying past the Hydra goon, maybe giving him that glowing smile, reaching down to slip something into that pile of scrambled eggs so casually. Easy. Bucky knows what that’s like. Maybe not the part where you make cow eyes at some Hydra fuck but the part with the poison, he knows that. His fingers still remember it too well. 

A few moment later, Nat comes back. 

“Let’s get out of here,” she says, her face closed off, now, nothing of the glamorous smile she had just a few moments ago. It confirms most of his suspicions. 

“The rest of them would’ve made a scene for sure,” he mutters as they walk out of the diner.

Natasha laughs. “We like to announce our arrival with lots of blazing guns. That’s Tony’s favourite.” 

Bucky imagines the streets of Bucharest around them blown up by Iron Man’s explosive fire. “What’s your favourite?” 

Nat bumps into his shoulder. They’re only walking side by side, now, just like friends. “Getting them when they least expect it,” she says, then smiles. 

Behind them, someone is dying. Sure, it’s a Hyrda goon, and sure, Bucky really  _ really  _ doesn’t give a crap about any of those fuckers, but there’s something in the back of his head that says that Steve wouldn’t approve. It’s kind of stupid, really. Steve approves of all sorts of stupid, bullheaded crap, but he’s always only gone for the straightforward thing. 

It’s okay to fuck up, but only if you do in plain sight of everyone. 

He looks down at Nat and wraps an arm around her shoulders. He thinks maybe this is why they’ve talked for so long. Of all of them (except for maybe that other SHIELD agent Nat sometimes talks about) they’re the only ones who share this unspoken agreement, that sometimes there is strength in secrecy, that getting your hands dirty means a helluva lot more than just charging into a fight.

She turns and plants one on him. 

This time, it’s not closed mouthed, or chaste, or for an invisible audience. 

Nat kisses him like the entire world is going to end. He brushes back her hair with his left hand, then cups her face with both of them. Under the flesh of his right hand, her skin is smooth and beautiful and Bucky kisses her back with that same desperation. 

Then when finally, they pull apart, he says, “Thank you.” 

She laughs at him.

She leans in for one last hug, and then she’s gone. She goes back to her homegrown Avengers and back to where the diners were somehow greasier but cleaner and he goes back to his crapsack apartment and shitty dock job. Bucky thinks the space where she used to be is as cold as a Soviet winter. 

At least, he thinks, there’s one less Hydra fuck in this world. 


End file.
